


What it means to own you

by EmilysRose



Series: Plot? Screw plot and gimmie cock! [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Biting, Bondage, But that one is warned about specifically in the notes, Choking, F/M, First Time, Forced Prostitution, Knifeplay, Mating, Oral, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilysRose/pseuds/EmilysRose
Summary: Some kinky pornEach chapter is a different story in a different world with a slightly different variation on the characters. If you don't like one chapter, just go ahead and go to the next one
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: Plot? Screw plot and gimmie cock! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717225
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	1. Breakfast time

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys are interested at all in a story with as much plot as porn--check out my I'll Fight For You series. Got loooottsss o' porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a different AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this one requires any context or not--so just enjoy!

Feyre woke slowly, drifting for a while as a large, callused hand played down her torso. Gentle fingers trailed rom her flat stomach, making absent-minded patterns before going up her rib cage and circling her breasts.

She stretched into it, then turned onto her back to held the roaming, pleasurable hands. Lips brushed her bare shoulder, caressing up the curve of her neck and twisting into her hair as the explorative mouth nipped her earlobe.

Her foot went up, rubbing along the crisp hairs of his thigh as her eyes opened. The predawn light was almost blinding with all the windows, but Rhysand’s bulk cut through most of it, his weight hovering over her with one elbow. His severe face was intent as he studied her with a heavy-lidded gaze, his cruel lips soft.

He was so gorgeous.

“I’m pretty sure I went to bed with clothes on.” She commented, her voice still husky from sleep.

“Yeah.” He circled one areola, his eyes intent on the flesh as her nipple puckered. “They were in the way.”

She laughed, and his hand shifted to her other breast, circling the other nipple till it was hard and pebbly. Then his hands went up, tracing the contours of her lips. She got an odd feeling then, like she was being stalked without ever having left the bed.

Lazy, she opened her mouth and curled her tongue around his finger, drawing it onto her mouth to suck. His eyes grew darker, more purposeful, and his tongue replaced his finger. Still a bit lazy, there was a low fever to their actions, an exploratory feeling as his damp digit went between her legs and entered her. It was soon joined by another, the slow curl and pumps in time with his kisses.

As she grew wetter, the kisses turned hotter, his fingers a little more aggressive. Before she could loose herself totally in it, she reached down and grabbed his erection, feeling his breath shutter against her mouth.

“I want to explore you.” She admitted, kissing the corner of his mouth, his cheek, down his throat where she bit without thought. It was maybe not the nicest thing to do, but he still tilted his neck, letting her lick at the gentle budding of blood from her fangs. “Let me explore you?” She was so dominant—in and out of bed. She had no idea if he would be okay with the idea of her taking the lead or not, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

He seemed to pause. Then, grabbing her hand off his cock, he pushed her hands above her head onto the pillow. “Sure, darling. After I get a climax out of you.”

Rolling her eyes, she didn’t protest as he shifted both her hands into one of his, then palmed between her legs. His hand was big enough that even with two fingers inside of her, he had to curl his palm to press his heel against her clit. Still a little sleepy with it, she languidly pushed up against his hand. “Come inside me.” She coaxed, as her pores opened and the pleasure turned a bit more consuming.

“No.” He watched her with greedy eyes. “You’ll come just like this, darling.”

The pressure built and built. Still a bit lazy, still a bit exploratory, it was one of the strangest sensations of consumption and gentleness she’d ever experienced. And it only grew. Like twin serpents, the sensations he gave her thrummed through her body and took her over. Holding her arms down, he seemed determined to keep eye contact the entire time, his golden, hypnotic eyes drinking in her every moan, every twitch, every panting cry. It was intense and oddly invasive, and the slow nature of his attention became a hold over her soul.

In a short while she panting, twisting against his hold and ministrations, hardly aware of the words streaming out of her lips, at the shameless begging for his cock, for him to be buried inside of her, for fill her with everything he had to give.

The climax came in a steady march. She was fully prepared for it, fully aware of it building and building—but the shocking force of it still surprised her. Arching, the breath still in her lungs as he kept working her over, never stopping despite the contracting muscles the tried keeping his fingers inside. “That’s it,” He whispered against her lips. “There it is.” He eased his hands, bringing her down with care as his eyes devoured her. “Beautiful.”

Instead of feeling satiated, she felt energized. Twisting to get her hands free, he finally let them go, and she slammed the heels of her palms against his shoulders. She knew he only turned onto her back because he let himself, but it still felt good to have that illusion of power over him. Getting quickly onto his chest, she grabbed his thick wrists in her hands and put them over his head.

The headboard was a solid piece of wood drilled into the concrete wall, stained beautifully to give the impression of a sunrise in the natural grain of the oak. It was asymmetrical, though, and where they lay his arms were long enough to grip the upper lip. She squeezed his wrists. “Stay.”

His smile was indulgent. “Yes, ma’am.”

She flicked his nipple in retaliation, delighted in his playful little snarl.

“You know, it’s probably sick, but I had a fantasy kind of like this.” His eyes watched her. “When you were shackled up in that cell. Well—the reality wasn’t all that pretty.” His wrists and ankles were bloody, he was dirty, shaking, furious. “But the way you lay there, the stretch of your muscles.” Her hands trailed down the bit of torso she had in front of her, admiring how, in a wonderful display of strength, he flexed. With his arms held up and twisted like they were, she could see every dimple of unique strain, every ripple and rib playing under his skin. “Yeah, just like that baby.”

“I’ll have to remember to add shackles to the room while they’re remodeling.” He said, still watching her, his gaze sparkling in their violet depths. Something about him—her big, dangerous male—laying supplicant before her just… did it for her.

“Remodel?”

“Yeah. I sort of threw my bed out of the building.” He shrugged, flashing more muscles.

“Wait—what?” Laughing, she braced herself on his pecks as his stomach flexed and bounced her breasts. The idea of him flinging a bed was positively hilarious. 

“After the dream.” He leaned up, obviously wanting a kiss that she refused to give him. “Having you break it before it really got started pissed me the fuck off. I was so hard for you. And you were gone.”

So he hadn’t moved them in here so his private place wouldn’t be touched. Invigorated by the idea, she bent down, licking his open lips. She pulled away every time he tried to retake control of the kiss, keeping up with a gentle press, with little nibbles. And when his frustration made him snap his head up, she sat fully on his chest again, feeling victorious and triumphant and sexy as he gripped the beautiful wooden headboard.

She slid further down his body, enjoying the pleasures of him as she went. She kissed and licked and bit, playing with the flat duskiness of his nipples for a bit, worshiping the absolute masculinity of torso, before following the crisp dark hair that led further down. Unstraddling him, he opened his legs wide so she could knees between them.

He was beautifully endowed, his erection big and thick, the skin of the shaft and head velvet soft, heavy with thick veins. His testicles were dark and drawn up tight. She played with them, first, massaging them gently in her hands, admiring their weight, admiring how he stretched like a cat above her, displaying his strength and settling in all at once.

She glanced briefly at his hands fisted on the wood oak. How his fingers had sunken into the treated wood, ruining what must have been a priceless piece of art.

Feyre let his testicles go, leaning up over his body so her face was near him. His eyes burned into hers as she licked the seam of his parted lips with the tip of her tongue as she reached blindly and grabbed the base of his cock. “This is mine.” She meant it as ‘this is my time’ but the words didn’t complete themselves. And the look he gave her, the intense, almost furious, absolute fucking rapture made what she said complete.

There were so many things left unresolved between them, so many questions and doubts and worries that lay ignored. But here—here they were perfect.

She went back down his body. Holding him up at the base with her hand, she licked up one vein and swirled the flat of her tongue around his head before sinking her lips down. He gave a short, sharp shout, his head falling back as his hips lifted up to greet her mouth.

She was no stranger to sex. And she’d always enjoyed giving blowjobs when men were hygienic. But this was something else. It wasn’t like giving herself pleasure—but at the same time, it was immense pleasurable. There was a gratification in hearing his ragged, rumbling moans, in feeling the tension of his thighs on either side of her. In giving as much as she could to him, she felt powerful, felt goddamn sexy.

Breaking from his cock, she licked at his testicles, enjoying the mustiness cleanliness before she popped them oh so gently into the suction of her mouth. Her fangs were still there, and she was absolutely care—and aware of his own stiffly frozen body—as she tongued the sensitive, hairy skin. She let her mouth overfill with saliva, drenching them before lifting and going back to assault his head with suction, her hand going down to fondle before sinking in deep. She found her own rhythm in it, between fondling him, squeezing and twisting her wet palm around his base, and sucking and twisting her mouth around his head.

Rhysand started yelling. Hoard, sharp, curt sounds that escaped his throat—which she realized was a language as she worked him. Going faster, she tasted his build up before it came, and as it did, she loosened her throat muscles and took him into her throat, letting it all spill inside in liquid hot spurts.

She was gentle in pulling him out of her mouth, not sucking so much as licking, letting some of it come back into her mouth to mix with the saliva—so when she finally released his still hard, pulsating cock, she could taste him on her tongue.

Rhysand watched, his eyes nearly glowing as she opened her mouth, showing the cum on her tongue, before swallowing it down.

He surged forward, gripping her hair and dragging her towards him in a devouring, open mouthed kiss. A tremble ran through his muscles, a deep pulse that, with her open senses, she could tell came from his Power. It originated in his chest.

Letting her hair go, he grabbed her legs and ruthlessly manhandled her onto his lap so her legs were on either side of his hips. He needed no guidance in entering her, shoving into her in a single, brutal thrust that had her tipping backwards, his hands grabbing her waist so she wouldn’t fall.

Bent back, she looked down the slope of her body. Watched at his he disappeared between her legs.

Grabbing onto his shoulders, she positioned her feet. His hands on her waist helped her bob up and down, though there was no denying that he was controlling the brutal, almost furious beat.

She was close to coming again when he switched positions, lying on his back so she was sprawled over him. The position was somehow deeper, since her feet were still planted on either side of his torso, one of his hands on her hips to help her with the powerful slamming of her hips to meet his. His other hand twisted into her hair, keeping her close as his own head lifted, his teeth bared in raw, sexual aggression as their eyes stayed locked together.

His ferality sent her into a liquid meltdown. She became unable to use her body as the climax took over, and instead of stopping, his arm banded around her hips and he thrust up into her like a man possessed, impaling her with rapid strikes before joining her with a harsh groan. They held like that for a long, tense moment, her lungs working in overdrive, her thighs cramping from the bent position.

Her eyes focused after some time. They were still nose to nose, his own gaze desperate and out of control.

Realizing she was focused on him, he said, “Not enough.” And then with one deft twist, he was slamming her back into the mattress. Still hard, he began to move again.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me.” She was literally going to split apart, death by friction.

He paused in working his hips, his eyes searching her with a fevered kind of mindlessness. Which just wouldn’t do. She locked her tired legs around his waist, her arms threading through the free stands of his hair. He hadn’t done his braids up since the moment in the clearing, when he was brushing her hair and she said she wanted to do it for him.

“Come on, baby. That was a challenge. Death by orgasm sounds nice.”

A savage smile lit his mouth as he set to work. Instead of letting her keep her legs around him, he grabbed them and threw them over one shoulder and bent her in half. Holding her by the back of her upper thigh, he used his entire weight to fuck her, hitting a spot inside her that had an orgasm building dangerously fast. She lost whatever piece of her was still sane. He took it with every brutal pound. Till her guts were rearranged and something inside her was blasted open. Without thinking she grabbed onto his horns, shoving him down onto of her so she could sink her teeth into the meet of his bicep and not let go—

“Good morning!”

Quicker than Feyre knew what do with, Rhysand was up and rounding on the man that was suddenly in the room. The small, petite fae male behind the food cart paled into a strange, almost grey parlor. “Out!” Rhysand roared, unable to reach for the man as he took a cheetah like hop back, his liquid black eyes swallowing up half his sickly face. “Get the fuck out!”

She shut her senses down just as his panicked eyes automatically pinned on her in a silent plea, noticing her naked and half sitting up in the bed. The horror in them was so visceral it made her sick.

The man turned and fled. He was so quick Rhysand reached the door before he got his hands on the poor thing, and Rhysand slammed it with such a force that wood cracked and it swung back open. Snarling, he shoved his still bleeding shoulder into it, seeming to force the door to stay in place by pure will, even if it did buckle and threaten to sag through.

Feyre watched him, feeling the tremble take hold. And as his furious, molten eyes turned onto her—she lost it. Laughter bubble out of her so hard she farted, causing her joy to double, tears streaming down her eyes. “Yo-you! Oh god!” Holding her aching sides, she tried sitting up. “Your still hard!”

He glared at her from the door, his cock—which was still hard, glistening and almost purple—hung proudly between his legs. The idea of him coming at her like that—

She howled louder. He rounded on her, cock swinging, fury in his eyes. And when he moved to get onto the bed, she found energy she hadn’t known she had. Jumping up, she dodged his hand, running towards the couches. For a while, they played like that, using the couch to keep them separated as he tried to come after her, her cheeks so wide they hurt. When his frustration got the better of him and he bound over the entire thing in one easy swing, and she made a mad dash towards the food cart, nearly sliding on the marble floors as the tears clogged her vision and her laughter ate up all her air.

His reach was too wide for the food cart, so kicking it at him—and suddenly smelling the bacon grease and cinnamon oatmeal that splashed onto the floor as it hit his thigh—she used it to rush towards the bathroom.

She made it all the way to the wall before his body slammed into her. Using his own arms to keep the momentum from crushing her, he pinned her there, his rumbling, snarling chest against her shaking back.

“You think that’s funny, darling?” He purred, right in her ear.

She had so little breath she snorted, which made her laugh harder.

She kept laughing, unable to help herself even as he grabbed her hips, pushed her feet off the ground, then planted himself deep inside of her. An agonized moan escaped his lips as she squeezed him with a death grip, the laughter clenching her entire body.

“It’s not funny.” He whispered. Then he grabbed her hair, yanking her head to the side before biting down.

And yeah. Yeah it wasn’t so funny anymore. Her own ragged moan escaped, and she had to support herself on the wall while they fucked like that, the difference in their height making it so she had to stand on her toes while his legs bent and he fucked up at her.

She hadn’t thought he could get any more intense. But now, with the full force of his possessive fury trained on her—she realized he might have been holding back before. She nearly brained herself against the wall several times. It was a mixed blessing when he climaxed quickly, his teeth still planted in her neck digging in so bad she could almost feel his fangs scrape against her clavicle bone.

He lost the ability to stand. And still holding her, she fell with him.

He hauled her into the circle of his arms, his mouth almost immediately working to lick the blood away, his power sinking into her skin to try and heal her.

“I’m sorry. Feyre, I’m sorry.” He murmured, once there was no more blood to lick. He pet her stomach. “I lost it, I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.” Absently, she flicked the back of her hand at his shoulder. He was still bleeding from her own bite. “Really. It was oddly hot.” Crazy, painful, but still hot. She’d liked how little control she’d had over the moment. “It’s the masochist in me.”

“Tell her to go away.” He said, voice ragged as he kissed her over the now healed wound.

Snorting, she rolled off of him. “Who was that guy, anyway?” She looked towards the food cart. It had spilled onto the floor, all the plates, silverware, and food sprawling on the marble.

“A dead fae, that’s who.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” Rolling her eyes, she sat up and tried to take stalk in her ruinous hair.

“I’m not.” He got up onto his elbows, glaring at the door which was staying together only because of the brute force of being squeezed. It had been bent in half by his shoulder, a sizeable gap between the top of the wood and the frame.

“Yes. You are. He didn’t know. I’m guessing he’s brought you your food for years and it’s never been a problem?”

“He should have knocked.”

“Well.” She thought about it. “He probably did.” She hadn’t noticed him until he was in the room strolling through with his good morning! cheer.


	2. Breakfast time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this story snippet is from a different AU universe. Feyre is learning to fight, she a fae living in an Illyrian compound, and Rhysand has pissed her off. It starts with fighting and ends with some good old boning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this world, Illyrians and Fae are very different sorts of creatures. Oh, and Lucien is Feyre's best friend.

“You want to give it a try?” I asked, all venom coated in sugar.

“Nah.” Rhysand folded his arms. “I’m more skilled in hand-to-hand.”

“I bet I’m better at that, too.”

Rhysand snorted. “Sure, Darling.”

“In fact,” I said, facing him. “I know I am.”

“I’m an Illyrian.” He pointed out. “With years of training. Not to mention I’m bigger and stronger than you.”

I gave him the smile that always pissed Lucien off to no end. “Speed and intelligence will always win over strength and weight.”

His jaw hardened. “Did you just insult my intelligence?”

“I didn’t know if you’d be smart enough to pick up on that, good for you.”

His upper lip curled up, exposing a bright band of white teeth. “And suddenly,” Mor chirped. “I’m really hungry.”

“What?” I turned to her, hands on my hips. “We just ate.”

“Yeah, but I want dessert.” She turned to Cas. “Have you had a chance to try the red velvet cupcakes the café on third?”

“No, I haven’t.” Cas looked like he was smiling, a low creep of a smile. “I’d love to try one, though.”

“Perfect.” She grabbed his arm and strode him towards the door. Without looking over her shoulder she said, “Rhysand, please make sure she gets home all right.”

Rhys’s tone was dripping with derision. “It would be my pleasure.”

Which pissed me off. I whirled on him. “You could at least sound like you want to!”

“I said it would be my pleasure.” He said, his voice quiet and deadly.

“Then your idea of pleasure must be really different than mine.”

“You know—” He cut himself off, glaring down at me. “I’m going to have to agree with that. Come on, get your blades, I’ll walk you back.”

The idea of asking if he found hanging out with humans pleasurable was on the very tip of my tongue, but it just wouldn’t gain traction. Mostly because I was angry with him, not looking to hurt him or distance ourselves further from one another. But I was antsy and I wanted to get out my energy and I wanted to prove myself. “So, you’re admitting that I can take you. You know that, right?”

“I have not.” He scoffed.

“Then come on!” I yelled, stepping back. I spread my arms out wide. I was waring a sleeveless muscle shirt over my sports bra, my workout shorts tiny and formfitting. The shirt worried me—he could use it to grab me— so I stripped it off and flung it back towards the table. “Bring it.”

He laughed his deep, booming laugh. And while I still liked it, he was now laughing at me. “You can’t be serious.”

Bitch mode was on. I was deadly serious.

I sprung forward, fast and light on my feet. Jumping, I grabbed his shoulders and brought my knee into his solar plexus, digging in deep. Rhysand went down, the air woofing out of his unclenched stomach. I danced back, watching as he got to his feet in surprising quickness. “What the Hell!” He roared.

“What was that about overpowering little girls?” I chirped.

His smile was low, wolfish and very, very dangerous. His eyes were glowing like pieces of violet ice stuck in the sun. “You’re out of your mind.”

Done talking, I charged him.

Rhysand feinted in one direction, but I anticipated it. I caught him in the midsection with a sideways kick that had him grunting. He spun, catching my uninjured arm as I gripped his. Using him for balance, I leaped and turned, delivering a fierce spin kick that knocked him several feet.

“Are you sure you’ve had training?” I teased, taking quick strides back towards him to feel the stretch in my thighs.

His hair had fallen free completely from its bun, and it brushed his cheeks as he faced me. “Are you sure you’ve only been trained a little?”

“Guess what?” I darted under his swing and hit the floor, planting my palms on the mat as I kicked out, taking his legs from underneath him. “I lied.”

“I can see that.” He hissed.

“Admit it! I’m better than you.”

Expelling his breath harshly, he jumped onto the balls of his feet and seemed to shake out his muscles. “I’m not admitting that yet, darling.” And then he struck out a butterfly kick I almost didn’t see in time.

My laugh was wild—more than a little deranged. And we met, blow after blow. It seemed he tried to hold back, but the more and more I got into his defenses, delivering no-holds kicks and punches and vicious swings of the elbow, he grew serious. He stopped holding back how own punches.

And the shitty thing was he was fast. He blocked several of my blows in a roll. “Come on, Feyre.” He panted, swatting away my punch. “Can you not do better than this? I’m getting bored.”

Roaring, I spun on my heel and turned into a roundhouse that knocked both his stupidly powerful legs out for underneath him. He went down hard onto his back, slamming into the matts with a terrible boom. I walked over his prone form. “You bored now, you poor Illyrian baby?”

Rhysand was still coughing as he looked up at me. And then with lightning speed I could anticipate but not see correctly, he grabbed my ankle and yanked. I landed across his leanly muscled body, but recovered quickly as I clamped my hand around his throat and straddled his stomach. “If I had my blades, you’d be dead by now.” I hissed.

His chin was lowered towards my hand, his gaze fierce as he looked up at me. His pale eyes weren’t frosty. They were full of fire, and I got caught in them, by the heat. His eyes were glowing, the pupil starting to stretch into a thick vertical line. He was so—so close to shifting, his muscles not even muscles underneath me, but stone wrapped in skin and clothing.

“I win.” I challenged. “Say it. Say I win.”

“Not quite.”

And then he rocked upwards, folding his legs over my waist and flipping me onto my back with a deft movement of muscles. Within a heartbeat he had me pinned by his weight, his hands easily slamming my wrists above my head. “What was that about winning?” He snarled.

I tried to kick out with my legs, but the iron strength of his thighs pinned them to the floor. His grip on my wrists were unfightable as well, his hands wrapping around them so the weight and pressure was on his knuckles.

“Speed and intelligence will get you far.” He breathed, his voice soft and deep. His head was so close to mine that his hair brushed against my cheek. “But speed, intelligence, and strength always wins in the end.”

I wasn’t willing to admit defeat yet.

I threw my head back, chest arching up so I could get the leverage to free one of my legs from underneath him. I was ready to plant my foot somewhere sensitive, but getting my leg free caused something entirely unexpected. His body shifted and settled between my now spread legs, our bodies lined up in all the right places. His lean, hard torso pressed against mine, his hips inside of mine.

Our eyes met. I stopped moving. I think he stopped breathing.

The air shifted, becoming charged. I was too hot, too tight, too everything. It felt like my magic was lifting out of my skin, threatening to burst from my veins.

Rhysand’s mouth parted.

Need. I realized all at once as the center of my focus became those beautifully shaped, parted lips. Need is what I’d lacked when I looked at other guys. I had never yearned for them, never felt as if being around them, touching them, was vital to my happiness.

I leaned my head upwards. Our mouths were so close I could feel his shuttered inhale. Rhys didn’t move. Impossibly it seemed as if he became even more still.

I licked his lips. A clean stripe upwards. And then his head was coming down and we were kissing. It wasn’t a sweet, exploratory thing. It wasn’t gentle, or nice. Our lips were so mashed together our teeth clattered and I could feel every stroke and twist of his tongue against mine own deeper inside my body, teasing out a sensation of lust and need that I’d never experienced before.

Wild, his hands left my wrists to grab my hips as his pressed down. I became acutely aware of his dick, the length of it pressing onto through his nylon pants and my cotton shorts. It was hot—hotter than the rest of his already too hot body—and hard. And he grabbed my hips, manhandling me up meet his next rolling thrust.

It pressed all of his weight onto me, and I grabbed for his back, clawing his shoulders to get more. And when it wasn’t enough, I grabbed the fabric of his shirt and lifted, yanking it to feel smooth muscled skin that my fingers glided again, then my nails.

His breath was hot as he moaned into my mouth.

But it wasn’t enough. Desperation clung to me and I wrapped my legs tightly around his hips before yanking my hands down. I shoved at the bands of fabric, digging under his underwear before grabbing the round muscles of his ass and squeezing. His next thrust was a bit harder, letting more fabric fall down as our tongues danced.

I grabbed it between my lips, clamping down hard and sucking—

He yanked his head back with a snarling ‘fuck’, then his hands was plunging between our bodies. I felt the brush of his fingertips over my shorts, going down, down, brushing the inside of my thighs before shoving the fabric aside and plunging in. We both hissed at the sensation—him, I think, because of how easily he could glide inside—and me because nothing but my own hands and a very sneakily bought dildo had ever touched me there.

I worked harder to get his pants off, his fingers too hot inside of me but also not enough. The second the layers were down where my hands couldn’t reach, I was using my feet, gliding them down gently hairy thighs. He lifted his hips to help me—and it became much easier.

His cock bobbed into the air between us. Thick, veined, a very red head, it’s all I got to see before his fingers were exiting my body to shove my shorts all the way to the side. I felt a wedgey coming on, then the burning hot sensation of something touching delicate folds. And then—

“Fuck!” I screamed, nails digging into his flexed ass as he entered me in one smooth, clean, powerful movement. My hips lifted up to join him.

I expected pain. Some sensation of offness. Mor had always said her first time was like that. That having Thesan insider her had burned and felt uncomfortable. But then she’d been a virgin, an actual virgin, with an actual hymen. She’d never put anything inside of her like tampons or dildos because she wanted Thesan to be the one to break it.

I had no such feeling.

Instead I felt the surety of that moment. The pure bliss of being stretched and filled. It was so different from what I was used to. With his body hovering over mine, and his wild breaths panting into my face, his weight on me, the tickle of his leg hairs against my feet, his ass in my hands. It was right.

I looked up into his violet eyes. The pupils were entirely blown now, vertical slits slicing through the color which bled into the whites of his eyes like ink in water.

Holding my gaze, he exited and plunged back in, a deep, vicious snarl escaping from his chest and vibrating against my own. It seemed he was struggling with his shift, because the hands the gripped my thighs and shoved them up my chest were clawed, teasing the skin with the threat of piercing.

My hands left his ass, drifting up his sides. One gripped his hard, clenched jaw while the other gripped his ribs under the shirt. “More. Rhysand, more.”

His skin hardened, darkening into that distinctive Illyrian protective shell. The claws dug in deeper as he took my hips off the mat to bend me and half and thrust. The feeling was immense, shocking and so deep it was nearly painful—but painful in a different way then I’d ever experienced pain before. As he kept up, thrusting like his hips were pistons, I realized it wasn’t pain at all. It was just as consuming as pain. As demanding as pain. I tightened my core to meet him with every thrust, my hand on his jaw sliding up to tangle with his silky hair.

His mouth lowered at my direction, hot breath panting against my neck. Hard lips touched the smooth column and I lifted up my chin to give him more room. He didn’t kiss me, though, his mouth parting, sharp fangs pressing against my skin—

“What the fuck!”

I flinched back, jerking my head to see—Lucien. Standing in the doorway, glaring at me as he let the door if the training room slam closed. “What the fuck! Get off of her!”

For a second, I don’t think Rhysand was going to do it. His clawed hands clamped tighter, his mouth working now that too many fangs were inside of it, his eyes hot, burning in their pale violet glow. His hips dug in, the new movement offering me a blissful brush against my clit—

And then he was off. On his knees and shoving his pants up his bobbing, now wet cock. “Listen, man—” He started, his voice an Illyrian’s deep boom.

I lowered my legs, squeezing them shut against the unfulfilled ache as my eyes shot to Lucien. “Lucie—” I tried.

He only shook his head. “Get out, Rhysand. Now.”

Rhysand looked strange. Half shifted, his skin almost black, his muscles bunched up to hold back his wings, his hands still claws—he looked like he was five seconds away from leaping on me again. But not in a good way. His gaze, when I met them, was infuriated. So angry that I stilled, wondering with an idle, frozen kind of way if he was going to leap for my throat and tear it out. Because he looked like he wanted to. He looked like he was battling himself not to do it. 

But then he was up, slamming into Lucien to get straight to the door and disappearing.

Lucien came over. “What the Hell was that, Feyre?”

That was—I didn’t know. I didn’t know what that was. I didn’t even know what I was feeling. Just that my shorts and underwear were soaked, I could still the friction of Rhysand’s cock inside of me. And I knew he had really, truly wanted to kill me.

“Feyre—”

“I don’t know.” I said, wrapping my arms around my legs. “I don’t know, okay?”

Lucien was furious, his fists shaking. “He was about to bite you, Feyre. He was seconds away from a full shift and he was about to bite you!”

“So?” What did that matter? Sure, there would be blood, and yeah, bleeding would reveal my mixed magic—but the way Lucien said it seemed so much more significant than that.

Lucien crouched in front of me, forcing me to look at him by grabbing my chin. “He was about to mate with you, Feyre.”

“What?” Confused, I jerked my chin away. “What do you mean, Lucien? Ilyrians’s can’t mate with fae.”

“Sure we can. The mating instinct doesn’t care what breed you are.” He said, his own eyes glowing. “How do you think halflings come about?”

“But…” But what? 

I couldn't find the words to defend myself. 

He sighed, throwing himself down onto the mat in front of me and wrapping his own arms around his knees. We sat like that, a parallel of each other as he fumed, and I tried to stop myself from shaking.

“No one explained it to you?” He swore when I only stared. “Illyrians don’t have sex unless their willing to mate because the instinct demands that they do. Sex itself doesn’t cause the mating—it’s everything that comes along with it. The loss of control over their shift, the urge to bite, the urge to breed. That’s mating. And he was doing it with you.”

No… no that wasn’t…

“If he’d bit you while he was fully shifted, Feyre—you’d be mated.” Lucien’s glare made me flinch. “Which means you couldn’t leave him. Ever. He wouldn’t let you.”


	3. Sell Your Body to the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre is looking for Elain, who was kidnapped two years ago. But the only way to get information is to sell her body for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this little snippet is different from the others. It's a scene from a smutty romance novel I can't remember the name of. If I can remember it, or if any of you recognize it, please let me know so I can give credit where credit is due.
> 
> So, the background is in the story itself. Enjoy!
> 
> \--also, disclaimer, this one has a knife in it.

“Here’s your room key, Ms Fredrich.” The receptionist slides over two plastic key cards across the marble countertop, folded up night and neat in a paper sleeve with the room number and wifi password scrawled of the Marriot symbol.

I almost don’t want to grab it. “It’s Mrs. Fredrich.”

Behind the customer service face, I can see the receptionist quietly thinking to herself why she should give a fuck. But I have a script that I’ve been given—and at the moment it’s the only thing keeping me from flinging myself out of the Marriot, wailing that this has all been a mistake. “My husband, he’s running late. Traffic from work, you understand.”

“Of course ma’a—”

“And it’s been such a long day, I just want to pop a Xanax and lay down. I would really appreciate if you could keep one of the cards down here, so he could pick it up. His name is…” Fuck. Fuck. What was his name. His fucking name? “Mr. Fredrick.”

I wonder if the receptionist can see my panic behind my sunglasses. They’re huge blackout things, square with rounded edges just big enough to swallow me from forehead to a little past my cheekbones. But even if—her nametag read Stacia, what a pretty name—Stacia can see it, it’s clear she doesn’t care. “I’m sorry ma’am, but company policy dictates that—”

“Please. I just really, really need to lay down and take that Xanax.”

The fight just isn’t worth it to her, I can tell. It’s 6 in the morning, the sun was just peeking up to stab poor Stacia’s eyes, thanks to the massive Eastern facing window lobby. She looked tired. Tired enough that the customer service face dropped for just a second, revealing the boredom in her eyes. It was clear she thought I was some floosy housewife, taking a dip into infidelity for the first time. I’ve got no bags. I’ve booked for a single night. Maybe that or she just really didn’t care. Her polite, forced friendliness was back up in an instant. “I understand, ma’am. I’ll be on the lookout for Mr. Fredrick.”

Thanking her, I took the sleeve. Moving carefully, I took out one plastic card and gave it to her. Then I turn and head straight to the elevator just past the Continental breakfast that’s prepped for set up.

It’s gone exactly as it’s supposed to, almost to the T.

I press my back against the walls as the elevator rises higher. It’ll be over soon. I know that. But my hearts clenched so tight it feels like soon will never come.

Inside the room, I look around. Julian had sprung for a single-bed King size. There’s a small, easily cleanable couch and coffee table, a small kitchenette for longer stays, a table. I use the small closet with three metal convenience hangers to put up my coat. Which means I’m basically ready. Underneath I only have on what I was told to have on: black lace.

The private investigator I hired hadn’t asked for anything too specific. Just black lace. And not wanting to blow my money on something new, I put on the old teddy I’d bought for my fiancé a year ago. It still fit like a glove, lace cupping my breasts and vagina while mesh and silk covered everything else. I’d only worn it once for Tamlin. He wasn’t the lace teddy kind of guy.

I regretted the decision now, as I looked around the hotel room.

Sometimes money just isn’t enough to buy what you’re looking for, sweetheart. Sometimes it takes a little more… persuasion to buy information like this. I’ve done as much as I can, The PI, Julain, had said. We’d been trying to work on Elain’s disappearance for a year now. All Julian knew for certain was she was in with some bad men. Prostitution work. I can tell you this, though, sweetheart, looks like yours… I know a guy who knows a guy, but he won’t want money. Not with men like this.

I hadn’t needed to ask what kind of favor this guy would want.

After I’d agreed, it had made sense. There was a kind of symmetry to it. Elain had been kidnapped and forced to prostitute herself. To get her back, I needed to do the same. Sink down to a level where I could understand her when she got back.

Now, I was just regretting I’d work the girl Tamlin had never wanted from me.

Reaching into the coat pocket, I took out the small, nearly empty bottle of pills. The Xanax were so tiny. Just two little blue things, ready to get me through this day. Popping them back dry, I reached over and grabbed the only other thing the PI had told me to bring.

The mask was thick and tight. It conformed to my face and made seeing even light impossible. I don’t put it on, but head to the bed and just wait. When the drugs kick in, I swim in the timeless darkness of the moment.

I don’t even flinch when I hear the electronic door beeping, and the footfalls of someone coming closer. I wait and wait. My hands are resting on my stomach, the texture of my teddy getting a little sweaty from my hands. And after a long moment, I turn my head in what I think is the man’s direction. He’s quiet—this stranger. And he’s not jumping on me immediately. It’s how I pictured it going down. So sweaty old man, his dick in his hands, jumping and thrusting onto me.

“Do you need a name?” Julian said I should ask. It was part of the script, the expectations, and being back on track soothed what little part of me could still feel scared.

The man had a low, smooth of a laugh. “Are you offering to tell me your real name?”

It’s Feyre. But I don’t say the words. This man will have my body but he can’t have anything else. But the drugs have taken me over, and I could feel a crooked, sloppy smile on what little of my face the mask didn’t cover. “Of course not.”

“Then no.” He says, his voice as deep as his laugh. He’s got a very light accent, which lilts his words softly but doesn’t make itself known. Another long pause. And it feels thoughtful this time. “Sit up and put your hands behind your back.” He says.

I wonder if he’ll tie me up. I always did want to try that with Tamlin.

Sitting up, I do as the stranger asks. The mattress dips, and I can feel a heavy weight shifting the shitty King size as he comes closer. His breath his warm against the skin of my neck. “I don’t need to be calling you Melody or Candy or some other fake ass name.”

“I was going to go with Chasity.” I don’t know where the glib was coming from.

His snort is silent. I can only feel it against my neck, a warm gust of sharp air. “We’ll be strangers for a while. That square with you?”

In the darkness, I’m aware of too much. He smells good. And I have no idea what kind of cologne it is—but it reminds me of sea brine and citrus and cool air. And his weight on the mattress is so large, I have to lean backwards to not fall into the dip he’s creating. I don’t particularly want to fall into his softness. In my head I’m picturing a fat Harvey Weinstein.

“You done this before? Like this?”

“Dunno, that sounds kind of round to me.”

This guy could be a serial killer. He could be filming me. He could have a disease that would follow me out of this room and mark me for the rest of my life. He could degrade me and beat me and make me do any number of sick, sick shit.

And my poor older sister was experiencing this every day of her life.

Only the thickness of the cover keeps the tears from being exposed to the stranger.

He exhales again, sending another warm breath across my chest. My nipples are hard, and the lace irritates them. “Place your hands in your lap.”

He just said to put them behind my back—

“Don’t sass me. Just do it.”

I do. And I jump a little as I feel fingers reach out, touching my leg. “Scared?” He sounds amused. Like he’s smiling.

“Would it make you more excited if I said yes?”

A part of me is happy he laughs. Most people find my confrontational nature to be off putting. Figures when I find someone who laughs at my terrible jokes—he’s a sick prick who pays to sleep with women.

The hand that trails up my calf, then my thigh, is callused and massive. Hands used to work. Hands able to grip a lot. They could around one of my wrists easily, fingers overlapping. “You’re braver than most girls.” He says, sounding like he’s teasing me.

“You do this with a lot of girls?”

“Yes.”

The honesty is nice. It settles me some, so I don’t feel like fighting it as he raises my hand. His stubble scrapes against the meat of my thumb, and then the tip of his nose is touching the inside of my wrist. It’s replaced by the gentlest feeling of lips that I’ve ever experienced. I almost don’t feel it at all.

Gentle is not what I expected. I wonder if this guy will make me pretend that were making love.

“Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be blind?” He asks.

“Why? Are you blind?”

“Answer the question.”

“I’ve always figured I’d rather be deaf than blind.” I said, shrugging, my wrist still up to his face. “It would be harder to live with, harder to adapt to, but I can't live without seeing, without art." I can't live without painting.

He makes a soft, acknowledging sound as he drops my hands to take it into both of his. His motions are slow, and he runs his callused fingers down the length of my palm, flattening it, his fingers tracing down the length of my fingertips. In the darkness it feels intimate. And then he’s taking my open palm and putting it back to his face.

“Tell me what you think I look like.” He let’s go of my hand.

Curiosity has me sitting up. My leg brushes against one denim-clad thigh before I get onto my knees and sit on my feet. Shimmying closer, I get as close to the dip of his weight that I can get without sinking in, then use my other than to touch his face.

I don’t know what I’m feeling. His nose has been broken before. His stubbled jawline is square. His eyes lashes are thick fans. He has a well shaped mouth, with a defined cupids bow. And, as far as I can tell, he’s not fat in the least bit. As my hands skim back up his face, I run my fingers through short, thick hair. “Ah, I’ve got it now. You wanted the blindfold so I wouldn’t realize your Leonardo DiCaprio—well the jig is up. I’m calling the poparatizi.”

He laughed again. “And what about the rest of me?”

My hands are still in his hair, so I let them go across the curve of his head and down the sides of his neck. He’s shirtless, so I can feel the behemoth length of his collarbone, my fingers dancing over it before sliding back up to feel the firm curve of muscles. He definitely worked out at the gym, but it was more than that. He was built like a linebacker, his overall height and wideness attesting to genetics, rather than a dedication towards protein shakes and deadlifts. Going back down, I feel three, sharply jagged horizontal ridges in his skin that shouldn’t be there, spaced a couple of inches apart. I trace them with my fingertips, realizing they’re scars. He’d been stabbed.

He shakes a little as I explore him, probing with the tips of my fingers. Curious, I redo the motion, sliding them down his washboard abs like I’m petting them. He tenses, and in the tension, his muscles shudder. I realize that he’s ticklish and trying to resist the urge.

I should be terrified of him. But this was so much different than the poking and prodding that I had expected it to be.

“Well?” He asks, when I still.

“Did it hurt when you got stabbed?” I asked, wondering if he’ll answer me, wondering what his reaction will be. I slide my hands down his arms, admiring the curve of each muscle before hitting his hard forearms and feeling crisp hairs.

“Yes.”

Going back up his arms, I go down his chest and towards those scars. They were old, hospital stitched, but they’re still terrible scars. He had to have opened them several times to get this kind of jagged texture—and my guess was he hadn’t gone to the hospital after that first time. “What happened to the other guy?”

“He got what was comin’.” His voice is soft, deep. So contrary to the message of violence splayed across his body and implicit in his words.

His stomach muscles contract and flex under my hands—and then I can feel his hand in my hair. Careful about the tight mask, he runs his fingers inside and then threads them all the way down.

“I’m particular about what I want. You need to do what I ask without question and this will go nicely for the both of us, yeah?”

I suck on my upper teeth. Obeying was not my strong suit. Doing it without question was almost unheard of. But I was here not to enjoy myself—or to even be myself—but to get Elain. “I want a safe word.”

“How ‘bout no?”

I feel my lips thin. “I mean it—you can’t mark me. And if you do something that—”

“I mean just say no, doll. Quiet down.” He’s amused again. “We good?”

“Square.” I remind him. We were square.

“Good. Lie on your back.”

Letting go of him distorts my awareness. I feel awash in nothingness as I spread my legs out before me and lie down. I feel the mattress dip again, and his weight leaves it completely, making the feeling go tenfold. And then his big hand is wrapping around my right ankle. It’s an anchor, letting me know where he is. What he’s doing in the darkness.

“Have you touched yourself today?”

Confused, I get up onto my elbows. The frankness of the question has me feeling shy. “I—yeah. It’s a morning ritual.” And a nightly ritual. And a stress ritual. And a ‘fuck I’m bored’ ritual. Tamlin had always thought it was a weird thing for me to do. We were virgins. We were meant to stay virgins till we hitched the knot. But I had never promised chastity for the sake of religion or purity—but for him. For the love we’d shared, and his desire to wait till marriage.

A marriage that would never happen. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to be with anything other than my hand, no matter how desperate the loneliness got.

“Sounds hot.” Instead of asking me to take off my teddy, I feel his fingers slide under it near my hip, then slide down. My muscles feel stiff as he draws the fabric between my legs to the side, fingers grazing on a very intimate part of my body before—before the warmth of his breath is.

Fuck, is he going to do what I think he’s gunna do?

“Do you want me to lick you?” His voice is even deeper now.

And yeah, yeah he was going to do it. “You’re the one paying me here, big guy.”

His touches had been gentle before that, almost sweet. But then suddenly his big hand is wrapping around my upper thigh, squeezing hard enough to hurt. He keeps going long past my squirming, till I cry out for him to stop. Immediately his hand unclenches. “We’re not playing that sort of game here, doll. Own me or I’ll own you. And trust me… you don’t want me owning you.”

What the fuck kind of sick mind play was this?

And why did I still want him to do it? “Yeah, fine. I want you to.”

“Say it.” He demands.

Annoyance crawls up my throat, right along with the embracement. My voice comes out in a pissy hiss, “I want you to fucking eat me out, alright?”

He makes a satisfied grunt, and then my teddy is being shoved aside and without further ado his stubbled cheeks are rasping against my inner thigh, and his hands are shoving my legs apart for his broad shoulders. I’m not that flexible, though, so one ends up wrapped over him as his tongue is suddenly there. It’s wet, and hotter than I am, acting like a brand that has me tensing all over.

His tongue moves, never stops moving, actually. It circles me, putting pressure on my clit, stroking me in a rhythmic pattern that has me clenching the sheets, self-conscious. Did I smell? Was he getting hair in his mouth? I couldn’t tell. All I know is that I’m sinking into the mattress, my tension getting erased lick by lick at what he’s doing, at the contrast of his soft tongue with his stubble. I’m loosing myself into it when—it changes. He sucks.

“Shit!”

He doesn’t stop, and doesn’t do anything more than make a sound—what sound, I have no idea, I just know it rumbles and vibrates against my clit—as I rock into the motion. Half of it is to relieve the pressure and make it stop, the other half to get more. It’s incredible and too much and I can’t stop jerking my hips up, even as I reach down for his head and slide my fingers through his thick hair, my nails running across his scalp—

He gets up, and I can’t help but make a mournful sound.

“How badly do you want me to fuck you?”

I’m not hear because I want to fuck him. I don’t know him. But he laughed at my stupid joke and just did incredible things to my body that I can still feel, like aftershocks in the wake of an earthquake. So it’s not entirely a lie when I say, “Bad enough to wonder why the fuck you’re asking.”

He laughs again. And I really, really like that.

“Keep your leg’s spread, out straight.” And then he get’s off the bed. I do as he asks, waiting in the darkness as I hear a zip, then the rattle of metal, like a buckle being undone. I almost undo my blindfold but stop, because this isn’t some sexual games between lovers.

He goes for my left ankle first, wrapping something velvet-lined around it and pulling it tight. It’s a restraint, I realized as he goes for my right ankle. And not a soft, sweet one, either. Despite the velvet on the inside, it’s heavy duty and anchored enough I can barely bend my knee. As he goes for my wrists to starfish me over the bed, I realize that I might just be making the kind of mistake that a person can’t come back from.

He climbs onto the bed when he’s done, kneeling by my side close enough I tilt in his direction. Something cold and hard presses onto the skin of my stomach. “You still a brave girl?”

“Fuck no.” I’m terrified. Because I know what’s touching me now. It’s a knife.

The PI had said I wouldn’t be hurt. He’d promised—no marks. No lasting anything. But this guy was not the PI, and I had a feeling he didn’t answer to anybody.

The knife travels up my teddy, getting caught on the lace a bit, and stops on the bare skin of my clavicle. And then it slashes down, and I hear it all ripping away, tearing as he traces the same pattern down, down, cutting through it before stopping at my core where he uses the knife to hook under the strip of fabric and pull up. It’s the most exposed, terrified, vulnerable, and exhilarating moment of my life. I want it to end but want it to continue so I wouldn’t lose the feeling.

He straddles me, his forms huge, his pants rough against my sides. He lays the flat, cool edge of his knife against my right nipple, and everything in me freezes at the touch.

“Oh god, Oh god—”

“Don’t move.” His voice is just a whisper. And I’m still. I’m the stillest I’ve ever been, not even willing to breathe. And contrary to the cold flat of his blade, his other hand is gentle as it grips my breast, his thumb gliding over the sensitive tip. “So perfect,” He breathes, pressing down on his knife so the pressure flattens my boob. “So well behaved.” And then his hand is leaving and getting replaced by his mouth. He licks and sucks like he did at my core—but the sensation of it is so much more. Different, sweeter, it tingles across my entire body and shoots down between my legs.

But his knife is still on me.

“You want me inside you?”

Right now? I was wavering. But I hiss out, “Yeah.”

“You sure? Be careful what you wish for.”

“The fuck kind of answer…” I trail off. It’s a test, I realize. Part of the mind game. Despite the fact that I’m the one tied up, he still wants me to own him. Did that mean telling him what to do? Did I have to egg him on? Encourage him so this didn’t seem like some kind of twisted pay-rape? Bracing myself in case I’m wrong, I say, “Do it. Fuck me. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

The knife vanishes and I take my first real breath in a while, feeling almost lightheaded as the oxygen reenters me. He shifts off the bed again, and I can hear him undoing his pants, slipping them off. I can hear something, a rustle, a zzzzz like something hard going over something soft. I heard another buckle.

“Ready?”

No. Fuck. I was so scared. Where was my trusty Xanax high now? “Do it.” I hiss. Get it over with.

He does something I hadn’t even considered a possibility. I was waiting for a thrust, for entry. Instead I feel him stepping over my shoulders and nearly sitting on my chest—his balls a soft weight, compared to the hardness of his hairy thighs—as a loop of leather goes over my head and cinches tight. His belt isn’t tight enough to steal breath but promise that it can be done easily.

“Open your mouth.”

I’m trembling. “I-”

“Do it.” His tone is firm, but gentle. His hand brushes down the side of my face, a strangely reassuring gesture considering the belt tightens a bit.

There is nothing to do but open my mouth. And he shifts up, then forward, guiding his cock into my mouth. He’s rock hard and tastes clean, musky but clean. He’s also stupid massive and I can feel the texture of veins against my tongue. And he glides stiff further in, going past the point of gag reflex and touching the back of my throat.

I don’t mean to suck on him. It’s just a reaction to swallowing down the sudden flow of acidic vomit as my throat constricts and I gag. “Shit!” He yells, pulling out, causing saliva to grossly dribble down my tongue before I can stop it.

“Still want me inside of you?” He knows just how big he is—and he’s smug about it, too. He wasn’t even close enough for me to feel his ballsack as it touched the back of my throat.

It was going to hurt. Fuck, it was going to hurt so, so bad. Even if I wasn’t a virgin I think it would stretch me out like no other. But what could I do? Say no? Would he react well? Let me leave? What would happen to Elain?

“Yes.” I say, feeling like I was agreeing to go down into Hell. “Yes, I want you.”

“Good. But let’s do this first.” And then he leans over, grabbing handful of my hair to cup the back of my skull so he can push back into my mouth. He uses his hips and his hands on my head to work himself inside. And I’m slobbering all over myself, weird, choking, ‘glu-glug’ sounds escaping from my throat as he thrusts. I can’t stop pulling at the chains, twisting, but for some reason I still don’t want to get away. For some reason, this was turning me on.

And then he let’s go of my head with one hand and grabs the belt strap.

Stars burst into life in the darkness. He relaxes the belt every so often, before the pain of not breathing really bursts into life in my chest. “Stay with me,” He urges, but for some reason it—he—is far away. It feels like I’m on a rollercoaster, that same mix of stomach dropping excitement bursting to life inside of me, rolling around. And fuck, am I terrified. But the fear isn’t doing the right things to me. I’m not panicking. I’m not even yanking on the chains anymore, but looping holding onto them for dear life. It feels like my pussy has its own pulse.

His erection turns granite-hard. He’ll come soon, I know it, but before that can happen he stops. He’s breathing heavy, just as hard as I am as he let’s the belt go. He stands up, and then his weight is off the bed again. He leans over me, first to undo the belt and then to brush my hair away from my sweaty face. The contrasting gentleness is too much. I don’t know what to do with it.

“Your mouth is perfect.” His voice is whisper soft, and he gives me a gentle kiss on the forehead. “For being such a good girl, I’m going to make you come now.” A tremor runs through me, making the chains shift, the sound of it getting swallowed up by his chuckle.

He walked around the bed and climbs on it again between my legs. His arms lift up my hips, holding me in an awkward, stretched position so I was forced to meet him. All discomfort left me, though, as he buried his face between my legs and started sucking on my clit again. Then the position was just a stretch, an ode to the strength of his arms keeping me up as my back bowed and curved.

The sensation was too much. Something unfathomable was coming, building, threatening to do something to me. I tried pushing it away, tried focusing on the more awkward things—the drool still on my chin, the gentle dig of the chains—but in the end it all just added to it. Pins and needles grew inside my limbs, intensity making my muscles turn from liquid to tense masses, then back again.

I was yelling. Swearing. Begging. It all started to jumble together, then become meaningless in the face of pure pleasure—which lashes at my body, licking at me like an inferno. It never lessened, but changed, turning sharper and insistent as he kept going.

“Please—please stop. Stop.” I begged, my entire body echoing and jerking the sensations of licking and sucking.

“Don’t forget.” He hums against me, making me groan. “It’s my turn.” And then he drops my hips, letting me fall to the bed before his body is hovering over me. I’m still too swept away to realize that the broad thing touching me is lining itself up before brutal pain is slamming into me in one, aching trust.

The pain is almost crippling. It’s like a cramp. He stops. “What the fuck?” He inhales sharply, then exhales just as sharply. “You probably shouldn’t have kept that from me.” His words are soft again, but in disappointment this time. Which was pretty fucked up of him.

“You ready?”

“Not yet.” I try to breath. “Give me a second.”

“Try to relax.” He offers. Like his behemoth cock isn’t inside me.

After a while, I give a short, sharp nod. “Okay. Do it. Go.”

He starts off slower and gentler than I think he would have if he hadn’t just deflowered me. After a while the pain subsides, so I wasn’t tensing under every thrust. It feels strange. Especially as he picks up the pace. And in the end he’s plowing into me like a freight train, unstoppable and raw with need. He comes hard, yelling into my throat.

And then he just sort of collapses. Not all the way, but onto his elbows, his great billows of breath straining his chest so as we breathe, my breasts touched his pecks. He calms after a second, and we match for a minute, inhaling and exhaling at the same time, before he’s slipping out and rolling off of me.

He was still hard. I could feel that. How, I had no idea. But he was.

His hand comes down my body, following the path the knife did. His fingers slide carefully over my core. It’s not an exciting movement, but it feels almost like an apology.

He moves around the bed, then, undoing my wrists, my ankles, taking back the chains and straps.

I sit up when I can, wrapping my arms around my legs as I press my knees into my chest.

“Did you enjoy it?” His voice is a quiet rumble in the darkness as I hear things slide around.

“I—I don’t know. I feel…” What did I feel? “Peaceful.” What an odd thing to feel at a moment like this. But there had been something powerful in his climax, a feeling of abandonment and excitement as he spilled himself inside me. “And sad, too.” But I don’t think it was because of what we’d done, which was the oddest thing of all.

“Make sure to take care of yourself.” He stands, and I hear something shift as he walks over to the bed. I feel he standing there, maybe looking at me. And then his footsteps are falling away.

I rip off the mask just as he opens the door. And there is my mystery man. A huge, muscle-bound, warrior of a man nearing what had to be six-four, wearing a loose black suit-shirt and faded dark jeans. His hair is an inky black and he's got a backpack in one hand.

He doesn’t turn around, and the door shuts behind him.


	4. A Present at the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is from an AU post-apocalyptic magical world where Fae are known, but not generally accepted into the main population so they stick together as criminals. Also, Feyre is a halfling human-fae trying to hide what she is. 
> 
> Also--Rhysand's personality is darker. Like if he had been the man he was pretending to be Under the Moutain.

Two things become abundantly clear the second the warm splash of blood hits my face: one, that I’m going to prison—and two, that I’m going to die in prison.

So it goes, my shitty old man used to always say. So it goes.

Cas drops the knife the second he realizes what he’s done. His hands, weirdly enough, are clean of blood. It’s a damn strange sight. And before him, slumped over now, his entire throat cut open to the fucking spine, is Connor Ianthe. A friend. Or what used to be a friend. Ianthe's now just another dead body that will eventually fuck me over.

I look into Cas’s face—watch as he begins to realize what he’s done, as he comes back from whatever dark, sick hole his mind puts him in when the rage hits—and I know. I know Cas doesn’t regret slicing the motherfucker’s throat.

“Go.” I order, jerking my head towards the back entrance of the bar. “Hole up for a few weeks—”

“Rhys—I—” But that savage light is still in Cas’s face. His wide, sloe eyes are crazed. Demented. His bloodless hands are shaking.

I’ve known the guy for what feels like my entire life. I know that in most cases, what he says isn’t what he means, and his anger is all directed at himself, even if everyone else feels the fire. Impulsive only scratches the surface of his love to self-destruct. It was half the reason why I loved the guy so damn much; it was Cas’s fucking craziness that got him to jump in front of my father’s fist and take a punch meant for me. It was Cas just being Cas.

He was a crazy motherfucker. He was my goddamn brother.

But right now, the sight of him put me into a boiling rage. A rage so fierce that I could have grabbed the bloody knife off the floor and stabbed Cas for what he’d just done. For being that crazy, impulsive motherfucker we both know he is. So when he moves around the puddle of blood to come at me—to fight me, to argue with me, I have no idea—I deck him. I send him sprawling on the ground, falling into slowly pooling blood. Finally, his hands get blood on them. Finally, that crazy light in his eyes turned into furious pain.

“Don’t make me fucking say it again.” Because if I have to say it again, I really would snap. Brother or not, I’d fucking kill him.

Cas, being smart on occasion, fucking booked it.

As soon as the door is slamming on his ass, I let go of my rage. I trash the bar. Feel the pain of my fists landing in solid wood as I destroy everything I conceivably can. And when I’m done, and my body is aching, I take a few strands of my hair and put on Ianthe’s dead, slumped over body. And then I grab the knife, cleaning only the handle with some bleach in the bathroom before holding it firmly in my hand so my prints are all over the damn thing. Because I need the evidence to be irrefutable. I need to make sure the cops assume the case is so open and fucking shut they don’t dare to look sideways at any of my people.

I don’t even give Ianthe a second look as I leave the bar, right out the front where the security camera in the repair store across the street can catch me, and walk to my Mustang.

The fucker deserved what Cas dished out. Fuck, Ianthe deserved a lot more.

I put the knife in the trunk of my car. I know what will happen next. It will take less than three hours for the cops to find Ianthe’s body—if not sooner. The wire tap the motherfucker had on him wasn’t attached to a receiver; no one was listening in, at least not at that moment. It would be listened to later. Held onto, until the trial. But it didn’t matter if anyone was listening in at that moment or not.

When an undercover federal agent disappears, the boys in suits tend to fucking investigate.

So I have maybe a day. Less than that, depending on what judge they use to get a warrant for my arrest. I knew a few of them who’d sign just because they saw my name, and more who’d do it because they saw my species.

So I had a day of freedom. Of life outside of concrete walls and metal bars and men just fucking like me. Less than a day to live—before someone inevitably shanks me for all the shit I’ve pulled trying to control Seattle’s more irreputable businesses.

And the one thing I can think about? Is getting my dick wet one last fucking time. It’s a driving need in me. More consuming than drinking for the last time or smoking for the last time. Because you can find all that in prison. You can’t find pussy in prison.

I don’t usually call up Morrigan—I don’t really like fucking whores. Something about the fact that they’re taking money for sex just throws me off. Makes me question whether they’d choose to be there, screaming and moaning under me, if they’d gotten the choice. 

But I call Mor up, because I can’t go looking for anything right now. I don’t have the time to hit up a random woman, hoping she’s into the kind of shit I need her to be into, seduce her and encourage her back to my place. And I don’t really do repeats. I’m not like Amren—I don’t keep a little black book filled with phone numbers for when the night gets lonely. Shit, I can barely remember faces. So Mor is my only option. She seems surprised to get my call—suspicious even.

Our working relationship is just that, a fucking working relationship. She’s protected because she pays the protection fee. When her girls' get slapped around—we break some bones. If one of my boys slaps one of her girls around—we tie the fucker up and let the girls handle it. Other than that, Mor and I don’t talk. We don’t really need to.

I’d never asked her for pussy before. She knows what I think of working girls. 

I can tell she’s reluctant. Can tell she doesn’t want to give me anyone. But I tell her how much I’m willing to pay—and she says someone’ll be over in the hour. I still don’t feel any better when I hang up.

I drive to my house. Night Court, it’s called, because it's a place where the dark, dead, dangerous things live. A gift from my dead parents who hadn’t thought to draw up a will despite pissing off all the wrong people, so by default it went to me. I’d wanted to smash the motherfucker apart the second I realized it was mine. Instead, I threw everything out and neglected it. Let it rot around me.

Night Court is in the middle of a ghetto on the borders of New-Seattle. Three blocks up, everything is destroyed buildings and no-man’s Magic Land. Three blocks down, gentrified civilization thrived. Night Court lived—embodied—the kind of place where no one looks at a person sideways if they come barreling down the street and stomp out of their car covered in blood.

My neighbors are sitting on their lawns or on their porches, smoking and getting drunk in the middle of day. They nod to me as I storm up. Lift up their fucking liquor bottles in greeting.

Inside is a shit show of busted up walls, stained carpet, and nasty ass heaps of shit I haven’t bothered to look at. Exactly the kind of place a rat would make itself home in. Exactly the kind of place my parent’s legacy deserves.

I have little time and little patience. I head upstairs for a shower, so I can be clean of blood when I get what I need.

I know my boys will be taken care of. Unlike my parents, I’m prepared for the inevitable. I have instructions for who will take over. What to do with my money and my contacts—how each one is supposed to be dealt with so the transition runs smooth.

Azriel will take over. Mostly because he’s the only one I can trust to keep a level fucking head when everyone starts challenging each other in the power-vacuum I’m about to leave. Azriel is all mellow, unsuspecting dominance. If a person was smart, they’d see the uncompromising steel in his eyes—but most don’t realize how powerful the guy is till he’s clawing eyes out and tearing people in two.

I let it all wash away from me as I take a shower. Watch the pink water fall down the drain and just… fucking let it go. It was the end of the line for me. But fuck, had it been a good run while it lasted.

My old man would have been fucking proud. The asshole.

I almost don’t hear the knock. I turn off the shower, waiting for it to come again. After a moment, it does. It’s a small, hesitant knock. Way too timid to be the police. And not exactly Mor’s girl’s MO, either. Whenever they roll up into one of the other houses, they just stroll right in. They’ve been invited, they own the place. But this knock is so gentle, so timid sounding.

When I open the door, I half expect it to be a fucking Jehovah’s Witness, braving the ghetto to save some souls with the holy light of religious-magic. The other half expects it to be a neighbor, coming over to talk about something stupid like a neighborhood barbeque or some shit. They always ask beforehand so I can bring my own food.

Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t a girl.

She doesn’t look like she belongs. Fuck, it’s almost obscene to see her there, with the shitty ass neighborhood and the decaying porch around her. She looks like she belonged in some kind of idealistic suburbia. Somewhere surrounded by private-security wards were nothing bad could ever touch her.

Her hair is shiny and her clothes are expensive and modest. Her smell is clean, smoky, and feminine, with just that little buzz to let me know she was packing some low-grade magic. There is nothing but pure innocence in her crazy expressive eyes as she opened her mouth then gaped at my naked ass in the doorway.

And shit, if she didn’t make my dick go hard the second I take her in.

She’s fucking beautiful. Almost insanely beautiful. Her blond-brown hair streamed around her face and down her shoulders in a heavy curtain, framing a tiny, white oval of a face that looked way too young to be standing there, taking me in. Her features were all delicate and feminine. But it’s her eyes that catch me. Big round things with a soft, storm-grey color to them. They’re expressive.

A pure _what the fuck_ expression reflected back at me. I enjoyed seeing the startled shock there. And enjoyed even more how her gaze jerked down to my cock—which jumped a little at her attention—and the lust rose up into her eyes as her blush did. She didn’t keep her gaze down but looked right into my eyes. Which took balls. I knew grown ass Fae who could do some fearsome shit, but couldn’t look me in the eyes.

I swear, I saw something familiar there, in her startled gaze. I couldn’t place it though. Didn’t want to place it.

She isn’t Mor’s girl, that’s for sure. I can’t think of why she’s here, but I don't care. The second I smell her, I feel a little wrecked. My body is tensing for something, needing something, and this sweet little thing is here in front of me, taking in my erection like she’d never seen a dick before in her life.

I’m going to prison soon. Fae don’t survive in prison.

So I react. I’m going to lose everything—so I just fucking did.

She made a startled little yelp the second I lung for her. Her cheeks are soft under my palms. Her hair soft under my fingers. Her lips impossibly soft against mine. They were a little slick, too, so I drag my tongue across the bottom of her lower lip, tasting the chemical vanilla of Chapstick. Her soft, shocked gasp isn’t even a sound, just a reaction, and I take the opportunity to put my tongue in between her lips, feeling the softness of her tongue, the inviting, wet heat of her mouth.

Saying it felt good was too simple. The taste of her felt like it could wreck me.

The second she tenses up, I pull away. She’s tiny. Tiny enough that my hands dominate either side of her face as I hold her there, watching her every emotion flitter across those pretty eyes. More shock, some confusion, but riding over it all, a lust.

Her magic rises with her lust; it’s a little zapping, tingling sensation that I can sense, but not really feel. My seventh perception tells me there’s something off about her magic. It isn’t leaking out of her like it should, pulsating in the air. Either the girl is on a nullifier, or she’s blocking herself. It’s something only fools do. Or the self-loathing.

If she was either, maybe she did belong here in Night Court.

“I’m gunna say this once, so pay attention.” My voice was all ache, all need. Fuck, I’m all ache. I want this girl. She’s like a gift from fucking Fate, come to sit on my dick. “I don’t know why you’re here, and I don’t really care. You’re here and I need something from you. So,” I took my hands off her, my dick twitching at the regret on her face as I take an entire step back into the house. “Either come inside and let me fuck you. Or leave.”

Come inside, I wanted to almost plead with her. Wanted to try and convince her somehow. She was so much better than any cheap working girl who smelled more like their clients than themselves. But I wouldn’t plead. No matter how much every fiber of my being is demanding I grab this girl and pin her to the wall and fuck her brains out.

She watches me, frozen on the step, breathing heavily from her parted lips.

I’ve met very few people in my life who seem alive. Really fucking alive. I can remember each one vividly, remember their charisma, their fuck-it attitude, their love. The world opens up for people who are alive, because they take everything—the pain, hurt, passion and joy of life—and they always ask for more.

The girl is the complete opposite. Despite her straight posture, her confrontational gaze, there’s something about her that’s already dead. Like she’s Night Court, sinking into herself, held up only by the broken shard’s leaning into one another. She’s all sadness, hate, and resignation.

And as I took it in, I wished, for a just a second, that she would say no. Turn around, never come back. Enjoy whatever awful, peaceful life that had slowly been turning her into this beautiful little shell of a person. Pain could break her—and I, I was all pain.

But then the decision seemed to be made. I snapped my eyes back up to hers as something in those light, dewy grey eyes clicked. Her entire face, her entire body, seemed to say _why not_. And defiance fits itself in the arch of her little jaw, in the steel of her gaze. For a second, with her strange low-level buzz of magic, she seemed less dead inside.

She took a step forward, and I wanted nothing more than to be in her. Right then.

I grab her the second both her feet landed over my threshold. Just the lightest pressure on the backs of her thighs, and she’s up. Automatically wrapping her legs around my waist, her arms going around my neck. There was no hesitancy to her, and we both came forward to press our mouths together. I feel the clash of our teeth, but ignore it as I kick the door closed behind me—locking it, in case Mor’s girl did show up—and turn to walk her towards the kitchen. I don’t have the time or patience to take her up to a bedroom.

I let her take over the kiss as I walked her to the back of the house. Just to get a feel for how she did things. Her lips were soft, her kisses even softer, and her little tongue is teasing and hesitant when I obligingly opened my mouth for her. All exploration, all gentle interest. It was going to be a delight, when I showed her how I did things.

The second were in the kitchen, I drop her. She stumbles on her feet, looking at me with a startled expression on her face. “What’s—”

“Shut up.” I tell her, watching her mouth snap shut instantly. Confusion, hurt, a little bit of pissed off resentment shows itself in her little figure as her hands ball up and her eyes watched me warily.

She is so ridiculously beautiful—but I mostly like the way she looks at me. No fear there. I haven’t been looked at without fear in a long, long time.

I don’t grab for my dick like I want to, don't give myself the friction I need. “I’m going to own you, Darling. I’m going to take.” I wait, watching that sink in. Waiting for her to panic and run. “You will do as I say when I say it, and everything will be fine. If your good, I’ll even let you cum. You wanna be good for me, Darling?”

She should be running. She should be screaming at the top of her lungs and fucking bolting. I can almost see these thoughts in her face as she watches me like a startled deer. She’s questioning what she’s gotten herself into. Which is rather funny. You’d think she’d have asked herself that the second she saw a naked man answering the door. I smile at her, feeling big and dangerous and fucking manly in her gaze. It’s a heady feeling, and I have to do it. I have to touch myself.

Gripping my cock firmly in one hand, I hiss a little at the feeling of my dry, callused palm. It isn’t what I want, but it’s enough, for the moment. To keep the pressure down. 

“Well?” I ask, when her eyes glaze over a little, watching my hand work itself on my cock. I move languidly, slowly, twisting at the head and giving her a little show. I watch as her eyes jerked away from my cock, a hot, pink blush filling her cheeks as she looked up at me questioningly. “You wanna be good for me, Darling? You wanna please me?”

Her mouth opens, then closes. She puts the tip of her pink tongue between her teeth, so it pokes out between her equally pink lips. It was an unconscious gesture, one I couldn’t stop staring at.

She nods, as if she can’t speak.

“Good, take off your clothes, then.”

She sure as fuck found her voice then. “What? I—no!” Shock and embarrassment filtered across her face as she hugs herself. I’m a little surprised at her voice. She looks like she should have one of those high-pitched little girl voices, but it’s as soft and gentle and mellow as her little kisses had been.

I need to test her. Need to know she knows what she’s getting herself into. So I reached around—needing to arch my back to reach low enough—and slapped her ass. I didn’t hold back. Her entire body jolts forward, her chest crushing into mine as her cheeks get impossibly pinker. She feels so small curled up into me. And I feel big. I feel fucking powerful.

I take a step back. Still holding my dick—tightly around the base, no moving now, not unless I want this to be over as soon as I get inside her—and wait. I watch her, drawn into her as she realizes, yes, this is not the kind of thing where gentle little kisses will work. I can see how out of fucking depth she is as she looks at me, rubbing her ass with both hands. See how lost she is.

“I won’t stop you if you leave.” It’s sick of me, but I want to. The idea of chasing her around is getting me hot. I won’t, though. I don’t do rape. Don’t do unwilling. I ain't my old man.

“Say no, anytime. It ends. But you don’t want to say no, do you?” I grin as her eyes jump to mine, and there’s fire in her eyes, an anger that’s absolutely delightful. “You want to stay. You want to take that tight little ball of fear sitting in your gut and defy it. You want to be brave for me, Darling, and you want to stand in front of me naked while I take you in and tell you how fucking beautiful you are.”

I watch her shudder, her tongue coming back out to taunt me as it rests between her lips. “And if I walk out?”

“Do it.” I shrug. As if I don’t care.

We wait in tense silence for a heartbeat or two. She has an unexpected strength in her eyes. I squeeze a little hard around the base of my dick as my balls start tightening.

Her chest rises heavily, then falls. In one quick, abandon-all-hope motion, she’s grabbing the bottom of her too baggy sweatshirt and lifting it up over her head. Her hair tumbles out of the thing like a waterfall, dropping back onto bare shoulders. I can’t help the sound I make as I realize she’d not wearing a shirt underneath. Instead, she exposes a soft, white cotton bra wrapped around two perfectly pert tits. She's got an athletes' frame, with subtle muscles. There’s no fat to her at all—but also no bones, either. Her skin is this strange, milky thing that looks virginal and soft to the touch.

She drops the sweatshirt to the dirty kitchen floor. Still keeping eye contact, still defying me with her eyes, she looks like she’s angry at me for making her reach for her jeans. She moves quickly, giving no pretense of a striptease. As if the smallest hesitation on her part will make her realize what’s she’s doing and bolt.

Her underwear is cute, white cotton with little bows around the edges. Her hips and her legs are all small and delicate looking. Standing nearly naked, she looks like she could break. Like the littlest thing could just make her bones snap.

“More.” I demanded, finding my hand working myself over. Caution be damned.

I watch as she reached behind her for her bra and snaps it off. The shoulder straps go loose, falling down her shoulders. Her breath hitches, and she hesitates for just a second—just a small, tiny second—before letting the cups fall from her chest. Exposing her tits. They are small, round, bouncy, and have the tiniest little nipples I’ve ever seen. She has no areola. “Boil me, fuck, you have perfect tits.” And they are perfect. Never thought I’d say that about tiny tits—but they’re goddamn fucking glorious.

I watch as the blush on her face races down her chest, across those breasts. I watch as she reaches down and takes off her underwear without any more prompting. Maybe because compliments to her was its own kind of prompting. I liked that.

I stare for a while, just watching her stand there. Taking in her delicate frame, her form. There’s something about it. She was no porn star. Not the usual, sexual girl I aim for when I go out of a quick fuck. I like tits that could smother me. I liked legs for days. I like curves and weight I can grab onto. But something about her, standing there, daring me—daring herself—with her eyes as she wrestled with her own fear and deadness is fucking appealing. More than just sexual. It makes me feel great.

I tell her all this, barely paying attention to my words as I glorified her bravery, her breasts, the way her hair streams down her shoulders, the way her eyes take in every detail of me back. And when it looks like she’s no longer fighting to run, I smile at her. “That’s right darling, that’s right—now get on the table.” It was right behind her. A stained, scratched yellow thing I’d found discarded by the dumpster in the alley out back.

She blanches as she takes a gingerly step back and sits on the edge of the table. More leaning on it, then sitting. I reached forward again, flick at one of her perfect little nipples. Her little wail is hoarse as she reaches up to cover the offended breast. “I told you to sit.”

She trembles, once. She seems lost a little in her head now, her mouth open to accommodate her fast breathing. She properly sits on the table. “What now?” She asks, her voice is soft as she watches me.

What fucking now? It was a good question. I want to do things to her. Lots of things. Tie her up. Maybe scare the shit out of her with a knife. Just so I can see the defiance in her eyes, replacing that dead gaze. I also want to be buried in her. I want her lips on my cock as I fuck her face. If she were anyone else, I’d already have my hands in her hair and my dick in her. But something about her gaze tells me to wait. To make it good.

And shit, if her smell is anything to go by, I bet she tastes fucking great.

“Now lay back.” She lays back, arching her neck up so she could still stare at me. “Spread your legs, Darling.” It was probably the most endearing thing I’d ever seen, watching that flush consume her entire torso. I watch her put her tiny little hands on her face—as if to hide herself—as her knees lift up, then part. The move of her legs, the way they opened to show her gently haired, wet heat—I moan for her. “By the Cauldron, look at you, so fucking sweet. So fucking perfect.” For some reason, it was just what I need. She's exactly what I need.

“Touch yourself.” I need to see her touch herself.

“I—I can’t.” Her words are muffled by her hands. She doesn’t see me coming, can’t do anything as I slap her right between her legs. I watch as she cries out, her chest rising off the table as her legs come up to clamp down on my hand. 

“Fuck, your already wet.” And she really, really was. My palm on her, I can feel her. Her pussy is so soft against my hand, the wetness slick and almost scorching in its heat.

“Feel that, Darling?” I rubbed my palm between her folds, watching her tremble, watching her wide, startled eyes as she peaks through her fingers at me. “Feel how good it is? How much you want it? Let that fear go. Ride it out with me.” I move my palm down, slide my fingers through swollen folds and touch that little bundle of nerves that has her arching up again. The softest, gentlest little sound breaks from her throat.

I pull my hand away, even as her legs try again to squeeze together, to keep me there with her.

My palm is wet from her, but instead of grabbing myself and using that wetness, I put my fingers into my mouth. Taste her. She has a smoky, thick taste. I’m definitely going to taste more of it before this is done.

Her eyes are huge as she watches me roll my tongue around my fingers. “That’s right, Darling.” I grin at her. “Now touch yourself for me. Show me how you please yourself.” I grab my dick again, her slick and my spit gave me a little glide for the friction.

She’s breathing so heavily. Her breasts wobbled with every gasp. And slowly, so slowly it was almost painful, her hands came down to glide across her body. Down her ribs, over her hip bones. They slid into her folds, and the sight of her middle finger going for her clit has me squeezing myself. We both moan at the same time, her soft little one matching my snarling one.

I watch her get into it, all her self-consciousness being teased out as I serenade her with mindless compliments. I watch her head fall back, her chest arching. Watch as her feet on the table tense—toes curling a little—before she’s using her legs to lift up her little hips and move into her fingers. She makes sounds. Not the overzealous moaning of a woman being watched, but the soft, aborted sounds of a woman enjoying herself and surprised by it.

And that’s it. That’s all the patience I have.

I grab at her ankles, pulling her near me. Papers and bills slide with her, and she barely has the time to make a startled little yelp before I’m pushing my face into her pussy. I’m not gentle with her, like she was with herself. I didn’t tease her with my tongue or get her used to it. No, I fucking eat her out. Bury my face into her and lick and suck and bite like my life is already fucking over. It’s easier when I get onto my knees. Reminds me of the years, before I ran from home, when I’d be forced to go to Church. This is like worshiping at the alter. But better.

Her sounds aren’t little anymore. Her gasps, her moans, her little, “Nngh” hiccups are loud in my ears, despite how her soft, gentle little thighs are trying everything they can to squeeze my head. It’s fucking adorable. Until her hips got back into the action and she starts to fuck my face. Then it’s not so adorable. Its mind numbing. Ball crushing. Fucking hot.

She grinds against my chin as my tongue circles around and around her clit. And when her desperate little sounds got a little bit needier, when her fingers started to tangle themselves into my hair—I give a little more.

I suck her into my mouth as hard as I can, and she moans, low and sweet, as her entire body convulsed. Growing taunt and shaking as I ride out her orgasm. The second I stop, she goes limp. Her muscles twitching a little, her legs spreading open like a gift. I look up at her from between her legs, watch her breasts move with her deep, quick pants. Her magic is leaking, thriving, sizzling against me.

It isn’t till she lifts her head to look down at me do I really get it. Really see.

I’m used to women appreciating what I have to offer. Used to loud screams and rolled back eyes and scratches down my back. But something about the way she looks at me, with humiliation, with gratitude, with life—like I’d reminded her what it means to feel anything…

I feel like I’m alive, too.

“Come here, Darling.” I stand up, grab her thighs, and pull her closer to me. She’s like putty, all loose limbs and glazed eyes. It isn’t a problem manhandling her up, though it is a bit alarming how limp she is as I lift her chest. Her head stays back, arms too, her long neck stretched. “Hey, hey.” I grab the back of her head with one hand, making her look up at me. The skin of her cheek is so soft under my fingertips. It felt almost wrong to touch, so I do it lightly, so gently I wonder if she could even feel it as her dewy eyes flutter.

“Look at me.” Her eyes focus on me with a heated precision. Still no fear—but also no more anger or challenge. Just gratitude. Just pleasure. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She gives me a small, crooked smile. It looks broken on her face. Like she's not used to doing it.

“You good for me to fuck you?” Why am I even asking? My dick is so hard it has its own pulse at this point, so painful that if I let it go and didn’t empty myself into her, I’m sure it would hurt for hours.

A shyness passed over her sleepy features, a hesitation that she pushes aside so quickly I can’t really tell what it’s about. “Yeah.” Her arms come up, lazily wrapping around my neck as she holds onto me. “Yeah.”

This would be the time I’d flip her over and pound into her as hard as I can. But I don’t. I let her head go, watching it drop, then bounce back up. I grab both thighs, lift her, and walk towards the wall where the spare storage room under the stairs rested. She grunts as her back lands on plaster with all my weight leaning into her. Then a sharp, sucked in a breath as—the second her back was against the wall, I shove myself inside of her.

She’s impossibly tight. Squeezing me so hard it kind of hurts and I want to pound in as hard as I fucking can over and over. I pause, though, balls deep—because something… something wet had popped around my dick. I can smell the blood immediately, but I still look. Her back to the wall, her insignificant weight in my hands, I pull halfway out…

Thin blood is leaking out of her, dripping down her thighs, curving towards her ass. It’s on my dick, mixing with the pubes on my sack.

I snap my eyes to her and see the pain in her face. “You’re a fucking virgin?” I hiss. A fucking virgin? Who was this girl? Why the fuck was she here? Why the fuck was I just now questioning it?

“Don’t… don’t be mad.” I can tell she’s still in pain, it’s scrunched up all over her features. The numbness is coming back into her eyes, and it pissed me off even more. Her fingers were so soft against the back of my neck, playing with the hair there, as if to reassure me. As if to comfort me as she disappeared somewhere inside herself.

But no—fuck that. I shake off her fingers, leaning forward and snarling into her face. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” I’m a big man. Even women who weren’t as delicate and small as this girl have to be prepped and really wet before I go in or it would hurt. But a fucking virgin? I could tear her squeezing walls if I wasn’t careful.

“I—I—” Indecision ripples through her face. For a second, I’m horrified that she’s going to cry. Instead, that steel snaps back into her eyes. Silently, her gaze calls me an asshole.

I stop breathing as my cock is squeezed so fucking tight it hurts. I enter into her a little more, sliding in so the pressure isn’t so acute. The pain in her eyes infuriates me, but it’s tempered with that steel. She grabs either side of my hair with her two little fists and pulls. “Doesn’t matter—it doesn’t matter. You said you were going to fuck me. I haven’t said no. So… so fuck me.” I snarl as her hands tightened. “Please.”

It’s the please that does it. Not that I wasn’t going to continue anyway, but it was that please that made me slide back into her body, as if she had taken over my willpower with a single word.

I do it slowly. Nearly snapping with the effort, I enter her fully, feeling like she was trying to kill my cock with every fluctuation of her walls. I leave her slowly, too. “Wrap your legs around my waist.” I order, and her legs go up, locking together by squeezing my sides. Pinning her to the wall with my hips, I keep her up with one hand under her ass so I can reach between our bodies and rub her clit again. Just to get that pain-filled expression off her face.

I don’t fuck virgins for an entirely different reason than my distaste for prostitutes. They’re too new. It’s ridiculous for a man like me to be tasked with popping a cherry. I want to brutalize her. I want to lose myself in her. But here we are, too far to stop now. I’m careful as I ease my way in and out of her, stretch her and try to get her comfortable.

We kept it up for a few agonizing minutes. The pleasure starts to fill up her face again as I get her closer to another orgasm.

“Here’s how I see it, Darling.” I hiss through clenched teeth, watching her mouth part, watching her eyes shudder and glaze as I put more pressure on the slow circles I’m making around her clit. “I’m gunna get you off again, because I can. Because your sweet little pussy is fucking suffocating, you beautiful, sweet girl. But I’m fucking pissed at you for not telling me you were a virgin. So the second you cum on me, I’m going to pound into you. And I’m not going to hold back. It’s your punishment for lying.”

“N-not lying.” She moaned then, as I push a little harder with thumb, as I enter her a little too sharply. Balance. This needs a careful, considerate balance.

“Keeping something from me is lying.” I snarl. For that comment, I’m going to bruise her. I’m going to hold her so fucking tight she’ll have marks on her.

I want her to be marked by me. It was a weird, primal urge I’ve had with very few women. The need to bruise, to bite, to keep myself on her skin days after I’ve left her. I realize as I slide out—that I’m not wearing a fucking condom. I always wear a condom. But again, here we are, and there’s nothing in the world but the feds busting down my door that will get me to stop. I’m going to dump myself inside of her. I was sure I was going to see stars when I do it, too.

My next thrust is a little too powerful. She whimpers, and I concentrate on that fine, delicate edge I have her on. I set a slow, aching pace. Her orgasm this time was such a slow thing. It builds up as if it was reluctant, stretching through her shaking limbs as she kept saying, “Oh—oh, oh.” It’s hot, but it’s also awful. I just want to take.

When she finally comes though, it’s worth it. She clamps down on me with so much force I scream right along with her. And then I’m done being nice. Done with being gentle. I take my hand back and grabbed her ass so hard my nails dig into her flesh—then I fucking do what I’ve been fantasizing about doing since I saw her on the damn porch.

I fucking claim her.

Her back slams against the wall with every thrust, her moaning wails turning into screams as I bury my face into her neck and fuck her.

It’s her hands that push me over the edge.

I’m in that perfect place of pleasure as I take her. I’d been planning on riding it for a while, prolonging the moment for as long as I could. But then her hands in my hair tugged sharply, and that little bit of pain does it. I get a little lost. My last few pumps into her are desperate, and I bite down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder, roaring my pleasure around the pound of flesh and blood in my mouth as the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had rips itself out of me. As if a part of me is burying itself into her body.

I really was seeing stars. Little black points danced in my vision as I let go of her neck. As I try my best just to keep us up against the wall and not crash us onto the floor.

It takes me a while to come back to myself. And when I do, I realized… she’s holding me. Pinned the way she was, my entire weight leaning on her, there was nowhere for her to go. Her knees are nearly to my armpits as she cradled me with her calves and thighs. Her arms around my neck are soothing. One hand rubs my back with gentle fingertips while the other runs itself across the back of my neck. Her lips were on my temple, just resting there.

It was weird—but it was so, so satisfying. So I stay there till I can breathe right. Soak in her comfort, like I never knew I needed it before she offered it to me. And when there is no excuse to stay, I pull away.

I slide out of her, then release her legs. She collapses the second I let her stand on her own, falling to the dirty ass floor as she gazes up at me with her heavy, raw joy. There’s gratitude in her eyes, and it undoes me in a million different ways.

The inside of her thighs are bloodstained. Her neck and left breast are bloodstained. So is my dick. My teeth and chin. I lick them, getting the recesses of her blood out from between my gums and lips. It has an intense flavor to it—the magic so strong it sends more ripples of pleasure through me like after shock orgasms.

It must have been why I came so hard. Her blood had so much repressed magic in it that it could be used in a summoning stone. Yet it hardly palpitates the air. She’s burying so much power in so deep—she’ll be dead by the time she’s my age.

“I’m Feyre, by the way.” She says, giving me a lazy, blissed-out smile.

“Nice to meet you.” I fall to the floor right next to her. “My name is Rhysand.”

She puts her head on my shoulder, and I let her. Breathing in her scent, I take what she’s offering and hug her to my side. Because soon, it's going to be all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious at all about why Feyre comes to Rhyand's door--it's because she's looking for Cas. She thinks Nesta has run away to be with him. The only address Nesta gave was for the Night Court.


End file.
